


Booker's Seven

by pavlovee



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Andy | Andromache of Scythia Never Loses Immortality, Big Bang, Big Bang fic!, Future Fic, Gen, Heist, Paris (City), a bunch of damned fools try to steal the mona lisa, and i'm not mad about it, art heist, honestly this is just national treasure meets oceans eleven, if slice of life also was about plotting to steal the mona lisa, short little kinda slice of life, to be honest i dont even know what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29305791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavlovee/pseuds/pavlovee
Summary: Featuring art by the amazing @theturtlelives!!Paris. City of love, city of lights. The not too distant (yet rather distant) future.Sebastien le Livre has recently taken up work at the American University of Paris, teaching Art History to undergrads and spending every other waking moment of the past several months hopelessly working on what may be his biggest-scale forgery yet (he’s well aware his best work is either the one of the Klimts or Van Goghs): the Mona Lisa.He’s finally finished it, which only leaves one thing left for him to do.And he’s going to need some help to pull it off.(Or, Booker finally steals the Mona Lisa.)
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	1. The Forger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art featured is by the amazing @[theturtlelives](https://theturtlelives.tumblr.com/)!! it was such a dream to work with her on this project, and i'm so glad such a talented artist wanted to illustrate this silly little fic.

“Welcome to Art History. You may call me Professor. You may call me Professor– _Professeur_ for some of you– _le Livre,_ or Doctor le Livre. I have a doctorate, yes. Or, if you’re comfortable with it, you may call me Sebastien. You may _not_ call me Seb, Seby, Mister le Livre, or _Monsieur._ I earned a PhD so that people would stop calling me mister, but I am a professor, so that title is also fitting. So, do you all have the syllabus? It was next to the door on your way in, on the stool. If not, you can make the walk of shame and get one now. I see a few of you need to do that. Yeah, it happens, no worries. ‘ _Why am I here?’_ you ask yourself, and I can provide the answer: you are either required for your major, or it filled some sort of required credits that you were missing. Now, is anyone here _genuinely_ interested in art history? Good…good. I hope you’re not lying. Before we go over the syllabus, are there any questions for me?”

“Professor–what’s your favorite period of art?”

“Oh…I love the Romantic period. We’ll be studying quite a bit of that. I’m also very familiar with Neoclassicism and Rococo, though neither are my _favorite_.” 

“Doctor le Livre, what do you think is the most influential art movement?”

“Hmm…most influential, or most important?”

“Influential.” 

“Most influential? Impressionists are quite famous, and when the common person thinks of art, they’re going to think of…what? _Starry Night_ , Van Gogh. Which is? Impressionist. We’re not talking about _La Gioconda_ , I have too many opinions on it, and it’s not Impressionist anyways. Cubism is a big one… _Art Nouveau_ is also important–we wouldn’t have Art _Deco_ without it. Surrealism is a big one, too! Personally, I believe _influential_ has to be awarded to Impressionism, though anyone else would say Cubism. _Their_ opinions are correct, I am not. At least, I’m supposed to tell you that. We collectively dislike Picasso, but he did some pretty important shit.” 

“Professor, what’s going to be on the final?”

“We’ll be going over that soon enough. Anyone else? No? Oh–yes! You, in the back. What’s your name?”

“Cassie. I just wanted to know what you think of the Mona Lisa.” 

“…the Mona Lisa?”

* * *

Booker sat on the stool, the cloth tossed over his shoulder as he mixed another bit of paint. _Sap Green_ and _Burnt Umber_ with the faintest touch of a _Phthalo_ created _just_ the color he wanted when he matched it, and the careful strokes that followed had him biting on his tongue. So close, he was so close…

Pulling away and furrowing his eyebrows, he had no qualms about holding the brush between his teeth as he looked at what he’d done. Months, he’d spent _months_ working on this thing. And that was just the last stretch! Booker had collectively probably spent two _years_ working on this thing. After begging the group to let Paris be a home base for the time being, he’d set to work at nearly every possible chance he got. Even with the cover as a professor at the American University, he still had a lot of time on his hands. And now?

A few more strokes with another thickness of brush, one in a different color, were added to the painting. This time, when Booker stepped away from her, the brush fell from his hand and _clinked_ on the wooden floor of the Parisian studio. 

His fingers fumbled for his phone, shaking as he found Joe’s contact and hit _dial_. It was taking a few rings for him to pick up, and Booker was beginning to think he was busy, but soon enough, the familiar voice came to greet his ears. 

“ _Salut,_ ” Joe said blandly. He probably hadn’t read the caller ID in that case.

“It’s Book. I need you to come by my place as soon as you can.” 

“ _...pourquoi?"_

“I think she’s done.” 

“ _Give me twenty._ ” 

Booker hung up with that, letting his phone fall to the table next to him. He rubbed his face, staring blankly ahead at the wooden canvas as if that would rationalize what he was looking at. Granted, it would need to be _aged_ at least a little so it wasn’t a dead giveaway, but it would surely buy them the time they potentially need. 

It did not take Joe twenty minutes to get to Booker’s studio. In fact, it might have been less than ten. When the door came crashing open, Booker couldn’t even turn and take his eyes off of the wood panels. The floorboards creaked once the door near-silently croaked shut, the light steps coming to stand next to Booker, shoulder to shoulder. 

“Holy shit,” Joe mumbled in French. His accent was less notable than it had been in previous years, but his pronunciations remained perfect. “She’s...Book, wow.” 

In front of them was, to the untrained eye, the genuine Mona Lisa. 

Genuine enough to fool tourists from six feet away. 

“I know,” Booker replied in the same quiet voice. “I think this is the best thing I’ve ever done.” 

“I won’t lie, for a second I thought you actually had already stolen it.” Joe shook his head, and Booker finally tore his eyes away from the painting. “It’s clearly too new, though.” 

“I need to age it before we continue. Maybe get the wood a little warped too.” 

“I can help you with that...well, I’ll go to the Louvre tomorrow, try to get a good look at her. Figure out if they’ve got the real one in the case or not,” Joe said quietly, turning to face Booker. “I’m going to bring Nicky, but you could tag along.” 

“I’ll bring Nile,” Booker told him. “See if she wants in on this.” 

Joe nodded. “Good, good. _Shit,_ we’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, yeah we are.” 

“I’ll call Copley–we’ll need her help with the wall.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Booker mumbled, somewhat dismissive. “I’ll call her after dinner tomorrow.”

“I’ll have to tell Nicky, then.” 

“Does he not know yet? You’ve been coming over to help me so often–”

Joe chuckled quietly, shrugging. “He doesn’t mind too much, so long as I’m back before dinner’s cold,” he explained. 

“This is going to be the best damn anniversary gift you could ever give him,” Booker mumbled with a quiet laugh to go with Joe’s. “Experience included. _But_ you need to tell him soon, because I need him.”

“ _Hey_ -!” 

“He’s gotta help with the wall. The bastard is amazing at putting things together that I never could, and even if I have Copley helping, Nicky’s just...better. You get it.” Booker nudged Joe’s shoulder, still smiling faintly. “If he hyper-fixates on this, I’m sorry.” 

“ _You’re_ hyper-fixated, Book. Have been since we agreed to come here.” Joe shook his head. 

Booker seemed to ignore Joe’s words. “We’re going to have to start casing the Louvre. I can take my class there in two weeks–what do you think, a month or two of work to get a feel for the place? I want to know everything about where the sunlight hits the floor in the morning and how it glints in the glass. It’s...gonna take time. But the hardest part is done.” 

Joe laughed quietly. “The hardest part is cracking the most advanced museum security in the world, Book. But nice try.” 

“I _need_ Nicky on this,” Booker mumbled, shaking his head. “You have to tell him soon.” 

“I will, I will,” Joe promised, the smile still lingering on his face. “What time are you done with class tomorrow?”

“Eleven, I believe. That’ll give us a good amount of time.” 

“Call Nile, see if she can call in sick tomorrow. I’ll break the news to Nicky–but _you’re_ telling Andy and Quynh about this.” 

“After the Louvre,” Booker promised. “I need to look at her in person again, make sure this is going to be...achievable, without bringing in the damn Swiss Guard.” 

Joe shook his head, fishing his keys from his pocket as he did. “It’s going to be a pain in the ass. A _royal_ pain in the ass. Maybe you should look into getting hired as an art restorationist.” 

“I’m already an art history professor–”

“You’re a professor with a girlfriend who's getting a doctorate, you _need_ a side gig to keep afloat,” Joe reminded him with a wry grin. “I don’t see the problem.” 

Booker paused to think over Joe’s words ever so briefly. He was right. Son of a bitch was right. “I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed, nodding once. “Maybe I can get a night job going.” 

“Or just get recertified,” Joe mumbled. He shook his head as he wandered to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Book. Oh! Also, just to let you know–I won’t be able to hang around for dinner after the museum, I have a night class on Fridays.” 

“I’ll steal your husband, no worries. Where do you teach, again?”

“ENS.” 

Booker whistled. “Damn.” 

“It...can be a lot. But I enjoy it.” Joe smiled, opening the door with that. “It’s rewarding, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Booker returned the smile, moving to begin putting away his paints. “See you later, Joe.” 

He waved one last time to Booker before he left and shut the door behind him. While he worked on getting his studio cleaned up, he let some quiet music play in the background. It was all old French pop, still something he enjoyed humming along to while he organized his paints and cleaned the oil paint out of his brushes (with turpentine–the real thing, too, mostly because he wasn’t worried about the side effects of huffing it). 

Booker did not bother to drape something over the painting to keep it hidden–letting it dry with some sunlight involved could be beneficial, even if it wouldn’t do much. 

He slipped out of the studio as it was getting dark, locking the door and checking it twice before he began to descend the stairs and slipped into the Parisian streets. The walk home was one he knew by heart by now, even if he was aware of needing to take an alternate route due to some construction he didn’t want to bother getting tangled up with. He’d already mapped the path he’d take–simple, really, just go down a few blocks extra and make a U-shape to get back to his normal path when it called for it. Everything sounded _perfect_ in his head.

Yet, as he stood on the street corner, waiting for the cars to stop zipping by, his eyes locked on the building directly across from him, there was sudden hesitation in his limbs.

Feeling his pocket, the gold chip still burned a hole against his thigh as he watched the neon lights flicker and the noise pour out of the building and into the street when two people hand in hand left. He swallowed hard, rooted in place though he could not convince his body to move away. His hands _itched_ for the glass he knew he could get, a chance to fiddle with whiskey on the rocks and knock something back to make himself feel better. It didn’t matter that he was in a good place in his life, it still called to him and beckoned him in like a siren. 

His phone was buzzing in his pocket. A text? No, a call. His hand slowly reached to the back of his jeans to pull it out, holding it up to his ear without looking at Caller ID. 

“ _Salut_?”

“ _Hey, Book. Just wanna know when you’re getting home._ ” _Nile_ . He was not surprised it was her that was calling, especially at this hour. “ _I don’t know if I want to go pick something up or not, but if it’s gonna be cold_ –”

“I can cook,” he promised. “I’m on my way back now.” 

“ _Oh! Sounds good. I’ll see you then_.” 

She hung up first. 

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his face and finding the willpower to turn his body and continue the walk home. As soon as he was walking away, a weight almost seemed to be taken off his chest, and he could breathe again while he meandered through the streets. 

The fading colors of the sky just made the lights of the city all the more vibrant. He did not need to take the _métro_ to get home on most nights when he came from the studio, and it was not going to change now. The walk overall took him some fifteen minutes, though climbing the stairs took an additional three, and before the top of the hour, he stepped into the one bedroom apartment he shared with Nile. He was already loosing his tie when he opened the door, and by the time it had shut once more, it was off and dangling from his fingertips.

“Late night?” Nile asked, glancing up from her position on the couch. Her laptop was perched precariously on her thighs, a mug of something steaming in her hands. “Uni stuff or was it the studio?”

Booker slid out of his shoes to flop down on the sofa next to her, careful not to bump the laptop. “Both,” he admitted, “but the Uni stuff wasn’t so bad. _Mais..._ the studio work? Joe and I think it’s done.” 

Nile inhaled sharply. “What kind of done?”

“As in...she’s officially done. We’re going to the Louvre tomorrow to look at the real thing, if you’d like to join. Joe, Nicky, and I. You don’t have to, but I thought I’d offer.”

His eyes skirted up to look at her. She was wearing glasses, not that she needed them, to help with the light from the laptop, and they’d slid down the bridge of her nose a fair bit. The mug was still in her left hand, but she took a careful sip from it before she nodded and a smile broke out across her lips. 

“I’ll come. What the hell, why not,” she told him. “We’re going out to dinner with them afterwards, right?”

“Of course, of course,” he mumbled, waving off the notion. “Well, _Nicky._ Joe has a class.” 

“Damn.” 

“I know. But I need to start plotting with Nicky anyways–he’s great at this kind of thing. He always catches stuff I never could…” Booker trailed off, staring up at the ceiling and watching the exposed beams as if they’d start moving. They didn’t.

Nile nodded. “I don’t know the _extent_ of what that means, but I’m sure I’ll find out.” 

“Oh, you will,” Booker promised. 

She laughed quietly, breaking out the million dollar smile that he would never get tired of. Something about the way her lips curled and the glint that appeared in her eyes was like heroin, how addictive it was to see, but also it was so strangely contagious that it never ceased to surprise him. His own smile grew a fair bit, the chuckle breaking out of his chest. 

“So…” Nile shook her head, leaning back into the arm of the couch. “Dinner?”

“Oh, _merde_. What do we have?”

“Check the fridge. I’m sure we’ll have something for you to scrounge together, and if there’s not, we can still go grab something to go.” 

“ _Non_ –I promised I’d cook, I’ll do it,” he told her simply.

He swung himself upright, taking the four steps from the couch to the fridge to poke his head around inside. True to her word, there was enough for him to scrounge together something plain and simple, but before he even pulled it out, he glanced back at her typing away on her keyboard.

“Are you good if it takes forty five minutes or so?”

“Why?”

“Might...bake some chicken, we need to cook it before it goes bad,” he warned, looking back into the fridge to poke around at the remains. Granted, there were some other options that he could make work, but baked chicken was low effort and gave him time to run and get a fresh baguette.

She hesitated with her reply, but her voice was still clear when she did find the words. “Yeah, I’m okay with waiting.” 

Booker worked fast. Their little oven would take the longest to heat up, but after it was on, he set to work with seasoning the meat and actually taking advantage of the spice drawer Joe had strongarmed him into getting (“Why would you colonize half the world for the spices just to not use them?” was the common argument made in favor of the drawer). But, Nile had a flavor profile she really liked that they’d discovered more recently, so he’d be using that as well–at least, if they’re going to wait, they could wait for something good. 

He tossed in some vegetables last minute before throwing the dish into the oven, setting a timer. It was placed gingerly behind the cutting board next to the stove. His steps were quick as he went back to the door, sliding into his shoes and picking up his wallet and keys.

“I’ll make it fast, I’m going down to get a baguette,” he promised with a little smile. “If the timer goes off before I’m back, just check on the chicken and make sure it’s not raw.” 

Nile didn’t look up when she replied, “I got it. If the stairs kill you, send me a text so I know.” 

An unfortunate story–he _had_ killed himself on the stairs three weeks ago by sheer stupidity. All he did was miss a single step on his way down and slipped on the one below it, sheer dumb _luck_ throwing him over the railing and straight down into the foyer. Luckily, nobody had been present save for Nile, who had to rush down the rest of the stairs to make sure nobody _was_ on the ground floor to see the fumble.

She was still giving him shit for it, but he deserved it. When Joe had heard about it, he laughed so hard he cried. Not Booker’s finest moment, but not his dumbest either.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he told her, and then he was on his way.

He _did_ hurry down the stairs, trying to make the trip to the closest _boulangerie_ as quick as possible. It wasn’t a particularly long walk once he was out of their building, but he did have to wait in a short queue before running through the motions of _un baguette, s’il vous plaît_ and handing over the euros while exchanging small talk about the summer weather being so hot. 

When he came back, Nile hadn’t moved, and the timer still had seven minutes left on it. He was proud of the hustle, even if he was audibly wheezing from the sprint up the stairs (a dangerous game, but usually worth it). 

Dinner, in fact, was worth it. The alarm set for ten hundred hours the following morning, though, was not his favorite part of the plan for the next day. 

* * *

For it being the end of summer, Nicky still managed to dress horrendously. If it was his idea of _lowkey_ , he was dead wrong (and stuck out like a sore thumb to anyone looking to spot middle-aged fathers who were strangely missing their children), and if it was his idea of...no, come to think of it, there was probably little thought put into it. 

If Booker was really going to bring Nicky under his wing as his right hand, at least one new fit was definitely a requirement. 

Nile was tucked under Booker’s arm as they made their way through the varying rooms at a slow enough pace that they could observe, but they never lingered in one spot too long. She would occasionally ramble about a certain art piece or period she was researching for a PhD, and Booker would listen and be mentally taking notes. He couldn’t lie, half the reason he was able to teach at AUP was strictly because of Nile getting her doctorate. Of course, he _lived_ through and _forged through_ a lot of the eras he would be covering, but refreshers of other people’s opinions never hurt.

By the time they were shuffling into the _Salle des Etats_ , Booker knew at least _he_ was ready to get away from the crowds and find a place to cool off. Stood behind Joe and Nicky, shuffling through the crowd of tourists, Booker straightened his back as much as possible to try and get a view of the painting from a distance. His height helped, though it didn’t guarantee a victory.

All of this, just to let Joe get close to the painting and look at it. Nicky was set to take a picture, while Booker and Nile were there for moral support primarily. Well, alright, Booker wanted to compare his own work to Da-fucking-Vinci’s, see if he did it justice, but he wasn’t _telling_ anyone that. 

“She’s fake,” Joe said under his breath after looking at the painting for no more than four seconds. “ _Shit_.”

“What?” Booker leaned in close, letting his arm drop from around Nile’s shoulders. “You can’t be serious–hell, I can’t even _see_ that from here.” 

“It’s a good fake, don’t get me wrong, but...one of the fingers–look, it’s wrong.”

“How _wrong_ are we talking?”

“The angle of how it’s bent–”

“ _Really_? That’s it?”

“Of course it’s small, Sebastien. Do you know how good these things have to be to fool the public? Granted, we’re six feet away and don’t have much time, but _still_.” 

Booker stood up straighter, rubbing his face and doing his best to stay calm. _“Are you fucking kidding?”_ was what he wanted to ask, shouting at the ceiling and waving his fist, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Nicky nudged Joe, gesturing for him to start walking out to let themselves be carried away in the tide of people. Until, at least, while Joe kept walking, Nicky approached one of the guards standing near the work.

“Am I allowed to ask a question?” he posed to the guard, Nicky’s French lilted with an accent. Once the guard nodded, he continued, “where’s the real painting?”

“Well, sir, it’s right there.” 

Nicky’s eyebrows furrowed together. He glanced between the guard and the frame once, twice, then shook his head. “No, no. Her hands are wrong, just ever so slightly. It’s an impressive forgery, but not the real painting.” 

The guard regarded Nicky incredulously and shook his head, giving the Italian a small chuckle to accompany. “I can neither confirm nor deny what you’re saying.” 

“Is the real thing even on the premises?” 

The guard’s eyes skirted down to the floor as the chuckle continued. “Of course, of course.” 

Nicky’s smirk was wicked as he found his next set of words. “I suppose she’ll have to do then,” he says, gesturing to the painting on display. “Thank you for your time.” 

“Of course.”

Booker, who had been standing at Nicky’s shoulder and glancing around the room for most of the conversation, accompanied him back towards the door that Joe and Nile were waiting in front of. 

“Well?” Nile inquired before they were even completely met back up with them.

Nicky shook his head. “Not the real one.” 

Joe mumbled a quiet swear under his breath. 

“Did you catch his eye, though, Nicolò?” Booker asked, glancing over his shoulder once before he turned to look at Nicky. “When you asked where it was?”

“I asked _if it was here_ , and yes, of course I did.” Nicky returned the smirk and shrugged. “It’s just going to make this even more fun.” 

“Define _fun_ ,” Nile said, beginning to attempt to usher them into the next room. Booker was more than willing to begin walking, not wanting to raise suspicions while idling in a corner. 

Joe was rubbing his forehead. “It means these two are going to have a field day trying to figure out where it is and how to get to it. You’ve been to the studio, right?”

“Yeah, a couple times…?”

“Just wait until the Wall goes up.” 

“Oh, Jesus _Christ_.” 

Booker laughed quietly. “It won’t be so bad, and it’s the best way to keep organized.” 

“The miniature Louvre will be the best part,” Joe assured Nile, rolling his eyes playfully. “You’ll get dragged into this too, don’t think you get to sit out.” 

“Oh, I’m not missing this circus for _anything_ ,” she says with a little grin. “How could I?” 

Joe’s smile was more of a toothy grin, and he shook his head. “It’s a miracle you haven’t fallen down the hole yet, but trust me, when you do? It’s the easiest thing to fall in deeper to.” 

Booker gave Joe a playful shove with his shoulder. “Don’t scare her off, Yusuf, I _need_ another brilliant mind to help me figure out how the hell to crack this.” 

“If you’re not careful, she’ll figure it out before you can even finish setting up the model,” Joe warned. 

“I look forward to seeing that.” 

They did not linger in the museum for much longer after seeing the Mona Lisa. While Booker could spend days and days on end looking at all the art in this damn museum, the last thing he had the time for was wasting his days staring at art he wished he could’ve created (and, in a few cases, art he _had_ forged–he would be the first to tell you there’s a massive difference between creating and forging). 

Standing outside in the summer heat, Booker meandered to the side to pull out his phone and dial the number saved, hoping and praying someone would answer. Glances over his shoulder would show Joe, Nicky and Nile lingering in a small huddle, occasionally loosely gesturing to people and undoubtedly making remarks on them as they passed by. It made Booker smirk, but that fell as soon as a feminine voice answered the phone.

“ _Hello, this is Quynh speaking for Andy._ ”

“Q, it’s Book. I need to talk to you guys soon, and no, it can’t be done over the phone,” he told her, his fingers twisting in the pocket of jeans that were definitely too hot to be wearing right now. “Soon, too. It can’t wait. I know you guys might still be in London or Cardiff, whichever you went to, but–”

“ _Hey man, relax. What’s up_?”

“I _can’t_ talk about it over the phone,” he reiterated, training his eyes on the concrete slab he was standing on currently. “But it’s big. Really big.” 

“ _Is someone dying_?”

Booker huffed out a laugh. “No, but it’s the same level of important.” 

She audibly sighed from her end of the line. “ _Fine. We’ll be back in Paris tomorrow. You don’t have a car, do you_?”

“I walk everywhere, unfortunately. Better for the environment anyways.” 

“ _Of course you do. Fuckin’ treehugger. I’ll see you tomorrow, it’d be nice if you could meet us at the train station to help with the extra bag we have_ ,” she continued. “ _Listen, I’ll see you then. You can fill us in over brunch or something._ ” 

“Sounds great, Q. I’ll see you then.” 

“ _Uh-huh. This better be good._ ”

She hung up on him with that, and Booker turned on his heels to walk back to the trio waiting for him. Nicky had glanced at him first with a wry smile, while Joe raised his eyebrows in questioning. 

“They’ll be in tomorrow, I haven’t called Copley yet, but _that one_ I’ll wait until after dinner,” Booker said. “More than likely.” 

“Speaking of that…” Joe checked his watch, shaking his head. “I gotta get over to the U. If you let me know where you are, I may be able to stop in for a drink and dessert if we wrap everything up in a timely manner.” 

“I’ll let you know,” Nicky promised, pecking Joe’s cheek. 

The hustle that Joe had told Booker that he was _definitely_ behind schedule. Booker turned to face Nicky and Nile, his hands returning to his pockets. 

“I wonder if that little place in the fourth arrondissement is there,” Booker mused. He shook his head, turning to begin the walk. “Let’s find out, hm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me in other places, too! i'm on tumblr @[andromachesimp](https://andromachesimp.tumblr.com), and while you're down here, you can also [listen to the playlist i wrote this fic to](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1bwQKwtbcPJcysGomjznoZ?si=eJC1jTESQbiKtubDFil1Yg)! while you're down here, i'm gonna plug @[theturtlelives](https://theturtlelives.tumblr.com/) again because you should really give her a follow and look at her amazing art.
> 
> i can say that while i love the concept of this fic, i'm not 100% thrilled with the execution. all things considered, i was moving across the country and had a very interesting time doing so, but that's neither here nor there. just know at some point, if i ever get the energy, i may redo this fic, but also that's why the first two chapters are so disproportionately long compared to the latter four. anyways i'm also not dead lmao hi
> 
> now, with my final breaths, i bless you with a [chapterly cursed mashup](https://youtu.be/uOSQXdu7h2sg) that booker would totally unironically enjoy.
> 
> stay classy.


	2. The Point Man

The table was settled next to a window, and should technically have seated four, which was promising for the circumstance in which Joe could actually join them. They didn’t go straight inside once it proved to still be there, and instead meandered around together for a short while. Surprisingly, it wasn’t until they sat down at the table and ordered drinks that they began to talk shop. 

“From preliminary research that I’ve been gathering over the past...month or so, I can tell you both that this is going to be insanely complicated,” Booker said, his voice lower than it would’ve been if they were out on the street (and _definitely_ lower than if they were in the apartment). “This is...as I’m sure you know, one of the most secure museums in the _world_ . Laser security has greatly advanced since we last pulled off a job like this, and the _sensitivity_ has also gone up exponentially. I think _Quynh_ could potentially be the most valuable asset we have in this situation, though Andy is pretty high up there too.” 

Nicky scoffed. “It’ll be Quynh and you know it.” 

“I know. But...aside from that, there have also been upgrades to _management_ systems that watch both guests and employees. If we’re seen, or make one wrong move, we have the entire French police force on our asses,” Booker pointed out. “Nile–I know you’re going to make the joke. I would normally agree, except they have...a lot of artillery. A lot more than we could have, with just six.” 

“I could still make the joke, but I won’t,” she said, scoffing at the notion. She sipped at a glass of water before she continued, “I think we have a lot of firepower, but I don’t wanna get killed four times and then go to prison. I can’t deal with that, even if Copley gets us out within a couple days.” 

“French prison is truly awful,” Booker mused. His eyes trained on the table as he said the words, a brief memory popping back into his head. It faded just as fast, but the fact that it had still appeared did not make him feel good. “I wouldn’t let it go that far, though. If it goes south, it goes south. There’s nothing we can do.” 

“Joe briefly talked about restoration work,” Nicky threw in. “Does that still sound viable?”

Booker had to hesitate, his eyebrows furrowed and his fingers laced together on the table in a tight-knit form. “They’d know it was me, though. And we would have to leave Paris.” 

“Has your acting got any better since _The Importance of Being Earnest_?” 

“Hey–I was _good_ in that, and Andy and Joe would agree with me there.” 

Nile squinted at Booker and shook her head. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were in an actual play.” 

“First performance, too,” Booker mused. He blinked and straightened out, shaking the memory that was about to settle over him. “I would say that I may be a little _rusty_ since then. That was...what, two hundred years ago? More by now?”

Nicky’s lips pulled back into a dog toothed grin. “Give or take a couple years. Wouldn’t hurt for you to practice again–” 

“Please don’t make me do ‘get help’ again.” 

“Next time we have to infiltrate an event, I think it would be a good idea to try it out and see how convincing you are.” 

“He’s got a point, Book,” Nile mused. “The last time you tried ‘get help’ it really did _not_ work out so well.” 

Booker sighed, exasperated. “Okay, my acting needs _work_. Hence the problem with the restorationist plan,” he stated. “There’s also the option of waiting until it’s loaned out to another museum for viewing, but firstly, I don’t know when that’s going to happen next, and secondly–the more problematic part in my opinion–do you _know_ how tight security is with those? Even if we can crack the van, assuming it’s _in the van_ and not being stealthily transported by some other method, we still have to _get out_.” 

“That’s going to be a problem any way we try this,” Nile said simply. “Getting _in_ is going to be the easy part. Getting out? Lord help us, especially if we set off anything. If they sent _some_ cops, I could take them. Fuck cops. But I don’t know if I can take the _entirety_ of the Parisian Police force.” 

For a brief moment, Booker smiled at the memory of one of their first dates. Once they’d established they were actually spending time together with the intention to date, at least, they had been at dinner when a riot broke out. A justified one, at that, but there was something so liberating about punching a cop in the face for him, and he had been _incredibly_ turned on when Nile had done the same. Usually, he wouldn’t advocate for violence, but when people were being scumbags to other people who didn’t deserve it, Booker would pull on his big boy pants and do something about it. He had the power, why not use it for good?

“Probably not,” Nicky finally mused, sighing quietly. “As much as I wish we could, perhaps it isn’t the best idea to plan for mass murder–” 

They were cut off by a waiter coming by to collectively jot down their orders. A bottle of wine for the table was the first order of business, followed by a starter. They would be here for a long while, as it seemed, they might as well have made the most of it. 

Once the waiter had disappeared (and was out of supposed earshot), they continued. 

“This speculation is helpful,” Booker mused, nodding briefly. “But admittedly, I’m not sure if we’ll get much done until the Wall actually goes up.” 

“Nile, do you have anything you’re doing tomorrow?”

She paused, a confused expression crossing her face. “ _Well_ , I mean...I was going to try and get some things done, but what do you need?”

“A printer,” Nicky said, rather bluntly. “And a lot of paper. And some ink.” 

“Are you going to the craft store?” Booker mumbled, his eyebrows raising in questioning.

He nodded. “Yes, I was going to. Tape, pins, cord. Maybe a corkboard could be a good idea this time?”

“I don’t need another landlord on my ass about fixing a wall, so that’s a good idea.” Pushing back his hair, Booker let himself lean back in his chair. 

The tell-tale sign that Nicky was done talking shop for now came in the form of a sigh, a sip of wine, and a skirting glance around the restaurant. Perhaps it’d stay that way until later in the evening when they were finishing their bottle of wine (Nile and Nicky were, that is, Booker wouldn’t touch it) and poking at dessert, or maybe even when they’d reached the coffee portion of the evening. 

Instead, Nicky switched the topic to the fencing team he was working with. They were supposedly getting better _now_ , but it had been a long road to getting them there. The first day Nicky had coached them, he came to dinner at Booker and Nile’s, nearly drinking an entire bottle of wine on his own–he’d started out glassy-eyed and catatonic, but over the course of the night became more fiery and gesticulated to help get the point across. It was amusing to watch, even more so once he’d slipped into angry Italian.

 _“They said they already had fencing experience!”_ he’d said, exasperated beyond measure by that point. _“They said they could work with an advanced practice, but half of them don’t know fucking epee from saber from foil and I’m going to kill them all, so help me God. No, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. But if these kids don’t get their shit together, so help me–”_

So it had continued. Hearing about them getting better made Booker smile, and Nicky seemed genuinely proud of where the team was headed. 

Over the main course, Nile began to talk about her PhD, and the work she was putting in for it. It would be her _second_ doctorate, which astonished Booker to no end (he had over two hundred years on her and he’d only accomplished four–the last one was thirty years ago, when they had taken a break in Madrid for what felt like a brief snippet of time, in Sociology and Anthropology). While this one was in art history, the first one had been in Astrophysics simply because it had always interested her but been next to impossible to actually achieve. While it was surprising that she waited to go for art history _second_ , Booker would not question her methods. He was merely along for the ride, cheering her on from the sidelines and supporting her in any other way he could, and would continue to do so with her next doctorate (she had expressed interest in African American Studies, so that would likely be the third). 

By the time they had reached dessert, it was late into the evening, and Joe had contacted Nicky to let them know he would be swooping in for some coffee. Booker didn’t have much to update in his own life, not that he wanted to when he could merely listen and enjoy the company of others. 

“So…” Nicky began, his eyes trained on the table and on his hands. “You. Me. Nile. Joe. Quynh. Andy. Is that...really going to be enough? For the Louvre?” 

Booker hesitated, a little surprised to get back to the topic. “I think it should be good. If we hire any outside sources, that’ll be too many guys, too much leverage. One of them would rat, especially on a job this massive. And they’d want a piece of her.” 

Nicky’s eyebrows rose briefly in acknowledgement, but he still tightened his jaw and leaned back in the chair, one hand still quietly tapping the table.

“You think we need one more?” Booker asked quietly. 

Nicky shifted again, in a position that made it look like he was crossing his legs, while he crossed his arms and pressed the nail of his thumb to his lips. He blinked, but pressed his lips into a thin line.

“You think we need one more,” Booker confirmed. _He’s right, though._

There was a moment of pause before Nicky slowly gave a single half-nod, exhaling slowly. His eyes darted to the window to watch someone walk by before he looked back to Booker.

“Alright. I’ll call Copley.” 

“If you’re going to call her, now might be a good time,” Nile pointed out. “Before she goes to bed.” 

Booker hated to concede, he didn’t _want_ to call her right now, but Nile was right. 

“I’ll be back. You know what to get me if the waiter comes back,” Booker said, otherwise excusing himself and moving outside to pull out his phone and sift through his contacts.

In the past, he would’ve used this as an opportunity to light up a cigarette, but it was one of the things he was trying to cut out of his life right alongside the liquor. It was a hard shift, but at this point in his life, it was the right choice, and that wasn’t to say he’d never have a glass of wine with dinner again, just...not when the temptation was still so close and the rejection still so bitter tasting. 

His fingers slip to feel over the sobriety coin in his pocket. _One year._ It felt like a mere day ago, but the only reason he knew it couldn’t have been was the withdrawals. Good God, that had been the worst part–

“ _Hello, Booker._ ” 

“Jane. Hi,” he said, honestly surprised she’d answered. Still, he smiled at the pleasant surprise. “I have a request, if you have time to humor me.” 

“ _What trouble have you gotten yourselves into now_?”

“Oh, no, nothing.” He laughed, a quiet but warm thing from the depths of his chest. “I’d like to talk to you, in person. Sooner rather than later, if that’s doable.” 

He could almost _hear_ the eye roll, but smiled when she sighed. 

“ _Is it imperative? Do I need to leave London tomorrow morning_?”

“Oh, no need to rush to that extent–” that was when he would be dealing with filling in Andy and Quynh as it was, so he was praying she wouldn’t come in the next day, “–but within the next few days would be ideal.” 

“ _...this better be fucking good._ ”

“It will be, trust me,” he assured her. “Let me know when you can make it in, I’ll meet you at the train station.” 

“ _Will do. Have a good night._ ” 

She hung up on him, and he pocketed the phone. 

The original Copley had died a few decades ago. It was an upsetting ordeal to go through, but it had become a tradition in his honor that every mortal they... _acquired_ to help clean up their messes and find them jobs would carry the name Copley. The second iteration was a man named Landon, and the current was a woman named Jane. Half the time, they merely called them by _Copley_ anyways, and on rare occasions was it their actual name (it was always clear when Booker wanted something out of them, because he would refer to them solely by their actual name as a way of charming his way into their good graces). 

Booker glanced out towards the street, watching the cars zip by and the people make their way through the streets of Paris in the late night. He had always adored this damn city, no matter how many other places he went. In a strange sort of way, at least. He loved to hate it sometimes, but so long as nobody else gave it shit, he was alright. 

“So I see I may be a _bit_ too late,” Joe’s voice called from his left. He approached in a tan suit with a loosened tie, a bag slung over his shoulder, and every step clicked quietly on the sidewalk.

Booker still cracked a smile. “No, I just stepped out for a minute. They’re almost done with the wine, though. You’ll be lucky to get a half glass, I think.” 

“Is there at least any dessert left over? Or am I going to only get a coffee out of this?”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s something you can grab,” Booker mused, giving Joe’s shoulder a quick clap as he began to walk back inside. “Let’s not keep them waiting though, no?”

“Probably not the best idea.” 

Joe claimed the seat that had been left empty, barely having sat down before he was already poking at the three-quarters of the dessert Nicky hadn’t eaten. Part of Booker suspected that was on purpose, but who was he to even criticize? Joe got to order his coffee soon enough as it was.

“What did Copley say?” Nile asked, her eyes flicked over to meet Booker’s. “Is she coming around?”

“Within the next couple of days, yeah,” he informed her. “Hopefully not tomorrow, we already have Andy and Quynh coming in then, and I don’t think I can explain it to both parties at once.” 

Joe cleared his throat briefly, already having his hands up near his chest in preparation to gesticulate while he spoke. “So how in depth did you guys get while I was gone? About _la Gioconda_? If you spoke about her at all?”

“Not...too into detail,” Booker warned. “But, now that I think of it, it may be a good idea to stop by the studio tonight. We have the time, don’t we? It is a Friday.” 

Nile’s lips pulled up into a smirk. “If I didn’t have the time before, I’d be making it. I wanna see what you’ve been killing yourself over.” 

“You think you’ll still be awake, Joe?” Nicky asked, his voice a lower mumble than it had been before. 

Joe still nodded, waving the notion off. “Of course, darling. I’ve seen her before, but...I’d like to see her again.” 

“Then we’ll go–do we want anything else while we’re here? No? Alright...eh, _monsieur? Ah, oui. L’addition, s’il vous plaît._ ” 

Booker was the one to take care of the check. He didn’t mind, considering that they tended to pool their funds together when they were on the road as it was. Yet, they still lingered for long enough so that Joe could finish his coffee and Nicky’s dessert, and Nile and Nicky could finish off the bottle of wine. 

They took the _métro_ to get closer to the studio, but it was a quick journey after that to get up to the third floor of the proper building. Booker closed the curtains and locked the door before he flipped on the lights, much to the annoyance of his companions, but as soon as the light was on, they all fell silent again. Even Booker had to go quiet as he stared at the wooden panels in front of them.

She was beautiful, he had to admit. It was like staring in through a portal to the Italian Renaissance, and he was transfixed by it.

“...how long did this take you?” Nile finally asked, approaching it slowly. 

“Careful–it might still be wet,” Booker warned before she could get too close. “It took me...two years, overall, but this is what I’ve been working on for the past three months. All the details. The actual...her. Before, I just had some of the background, which means...most of this is within three months.” 

“Jesus,” she breathed, shaking her head. “It’s beautiful.” 

It took him a moment before he remembered the proper response to give was “thank you”, which he quickly mumbled and trained his eyes on the floor. While staring at the grains in the wooden floor, he took a moment to think over what would come next, logically, with coming up here. 

“If the real one isn’t on display,” Booker mused, “they have to be retouching the original. Making sure it isn’t too damaged by anything. But, if it’s not...we’re going to have to find our way into the storage rooms of the Louvre.” 

“Hence why the restorationist plan could be a good one,” Joe pointed out. 

“I’ll put in my papers when I get home. It _is_ a good idea, and I can at least get an idea for the layout if she won’t be on display. _And,_ if she is back on display, I’ll know. It’s too brilliant an idea to _not_ jump on it and at least try.” 

Joe smirked and nodded. “My point exactly.” 

“Do you think you could get blueprints, Nicky?” Booker asked. “Anything we can make copies of?”

“I’ll try my best, but I think I could. It may have to wait until Monday.” 

Booker nodded. “I’ll be looking into the security, if I can grab anything. Tomorrow is going to be mostly spent making sure everything they could fact check holds up.” 

“A good idea,” Joe added under his breath. “When you’re not talking to–”

“ _Fuck._ I forgot. Right.” 

Nile shook her head. “Will they be at ours?”

“More than likely.” 

“Good to know.”

Nicky stepped to the side of the painting, peering up at the wall behind it. He squinted, sighting it with his thumb as if he were an artist, but he nodded. “This will do nicely,” he finally said.

Booker almost had to laugh. “I don’t know how much corkboard I’m going to need, but...I don’t want a landlady to yell at me for pinholes in the walls.” 

“Did it happen with the Monet?” Nicky asked quietly, turning to look at Booker with a quirked eyebrow. 

“ _Manet_ , and yes.” 

“I can still never remember the difference. Which one married his mistress?” 

Nile piped up, “Monet. Manet had syphilis.” 

“Right, right,” Booker and Nicky mumbled in unison. As if Booker had _actually_ remembered that information. Maybe he’d sprinkle that in when he talked about Impressionism with his class.

Nicky continued, “I never knew either of them, admittedly. As nice as it would be to be able to say I did, we were in Argentina at the time we could’ve met them. I _think_.” 

Booker actually had to laugh. “Argentina sounds right. Might’ve been as close to Antarctica as we could’ve gotten, even.” 

“Yeah, because _someone_ wanted to sketch the penguins.” Nicky’s tone was accusatory, but his glare was playfully aimed at Joe. Part of Booker was tempted to dip out of the room right then.

Joe held his hands up. “I was curious! And besides, we didn’t have anything better to do at the time. Unless...oh, _shit,_ what year are you thinking of?” 

“...hm, 18...63?”

Booker straightened out and shook his head. “Oh, _fuck._ We were in the north then–that was the _American_ Civil War.” “Was it _really_?” Nicky asked, his eyes getting a bit wide before he smacked his forehead gently. “ _Cazzo._ It was.” 

Booker shuddered, shaking his head. “I could happily spend the rest of my life without getting involved in another war like that again.” 

“We did it because it was the right thing to do.” 

“That’s true. I stand by how we fought–”

“I can’t believe you _never_ mentioned the Civil _fucking_ War. It’s been eighty, ninety years, and nothing?!” Nile crossed her arms, an incredulous look across her face. “Do I dare ask what side?”

Joe, Booker, and Nicky all somehow managed to reply simultaneously, “Union.” However, Booker added in a quick “last time I get involved in American politics” to go with it.

Nile nodded. “I figured, but just wanted to check.” 

“If we ever take a weekend out to the country, I’ll show you the Manet,” Booker promised. “It won’t be for a while, but at some point, I will.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” 

Booker spent the following five minutes struggling with a tape measurer to get the dimensions of the wall (so he knew just how much corkboard he was going to have to construct–hopefully, he wouldn’t need to fill the whole thing), telling the numbers to Nicky who just couldn’t get the decimals right. Perhaps it was Joe who was egging on the playful argument they had going on, though Booker was ready to strangle Nicky the third time he had to hear “point eight _six_?”

They didn’t spend much longer in the studio, and departed to go their separate ways once Booker had locked up shop. The summer night was humid, and he was glad for the breathable shirt he had on. Despite the sticky heat, he still draped an arm over Nile’s shoulder (she was at a perfect height for him to do so), and he smiled at her fingers reaching up to tangle in his. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me in other places, too! i'm on tumblr @[andromachesimp](https://andromachesimp.tumblr.com), and while you're down here, you can also [listen to the playlist i wrote this fic to](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1bwQKwtbcPJcysGomjznoZ?si=eJC1jTESQbiKtubDFil1Yg)! while you're down here, i'm gonna plug @[theturtlelives](https://theturtlelives.tumblr.com/) again because you should really give her a follow and look at her amazing art
> 
> now, with my final breaths, i bless you with a [chapterly cursed mashup](https://youtu.be/P3aGk_Gwqjw) that booker would totally unironically enjoy.
> 
> stay dirty.


	3. The Architect

The train station was crowded when Booker arrived. He lingered outside, checking his phone every now and then for a text or call, but otherwise had found a pleasant place to sit and observed the crowd going by. Until, at least, he figured it was a little creepy, and pulled out his mass market paperback version of _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_. It was still one of his favorites, even a hundred and fifty or so years later. 

A familiar buzzing finally came from his pocket. Not looking away from the pages, Booker tugged it out and answered it. 

“ _Salut_?” he mused, carefully dog-earing the page. It was a sin, he knew, but he didn’t mind doing it to the mass market books he owned. 

“ _Where are you_?” Andy’s familiar voice came in through the phone, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Waiting outside. I’m sweating, I hope you know.” 

“ _Good for you. Q and I are coming out now._ ” 

“See you then.” 

Booker slipped the phone into his pocket and slowly stood. He stretched, sticking the book back into his pocket. Turning his gaze towards the doors, he adjusted his sunglasses and went back to observing. Now would usually be the prime time to burn a cigarette, and his fingers still managed to itch for one to kill the boredom, but with nothing to pull out, his only other option was to bum one off of anyone nearby…

He glanced towards the street, eyes narrowing in on someone with a cigarette. If he really thought about it, he could almost swear he could smell the nicotine; his throat got dry and tight, his lungs feeling the familiar burn. 

“Book!” 

Andy’s voice snapped him out of it. He turned to watch her and Quynh walking towards him, Andy grinning as she got close and carefully gave him a hug. 

“Hey, boss,” he said quietly, carefully hugging her back. “Train ride okay?”

“As good as it could be.” 

“Hello, Quynh,” he added. 

“Nice to see you, Sebastien.” Quynh’s smile was mischievous. “I hope you brought us for something good.” 

“ _Better_ than good, dare I say.” 

Andy had pulled away by then, taking a step back to stand next to Quynh. “If you say so. If I’m disappointed, I’ll make it hell for you.” 

Booker laughed, beginning to walk with them over to where he left the car he’d rented. “Don’t worry, it’s quite the opposite.” 

He drove them straight to the studio, only stopping once to allow Quynh to get some coffee before they arrived. While he was wary of having any sort of spillable liquid near the painting, he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to leave it outside or set it on the floor near the door. He wasn’t even worried about spoiling the surprise by doing so. Against his better judgement, Booker said nothing, and once he’d parked opposite the studio getting out and peering up at the proper floor made him smile a little.

“Looks like Nicky invited himself over,” he remarked, glancing back to the two women who had climbed out of the backseat (which wasn’t a thing he had minded, practically being a chauffeur). 

“You got Nicky in on this too?” Andy asked, her eyebrows furrowing together while a grin slowly spread across her face. “What are you bringing us into?”

“Something I’ve wanted to do for a _long_ time. Too long, I think.” 

They said nothing more, letting him guide them inside and up the stairs. Upon opening the door to the studio, he ushered the two in and slipped along behind them. Only when the door had clicked shut once more did he feel like he could breathe.

“Hecate’s _tits,_ Book,” Andy said first, already locking eyes with the Mona Lisa. “It’s about _her_.” 

“I finished a few nights ago. Which means it’s time to do this.” 

Quynh slowly walked forward to examine the painting, looking it up and down and getting a side view of it. “And you need us to help you steal the real thing?” she asked, her eyes darting back to Booker. “Who else is in on it?”

“Everyone. Me, Nicky, Joe, Nile. Hell, I may have Copley in on this too.” 

“She _agreed_?”

Booker hesitated. “Well, I’ve piqued her interest. Haven’t officially asked yet–I need to call her and ask her to come into town soon. Figured I’d run it by the two of you first.” 

“Get Copley in on this,” Quynh stated, her words blunt. “We need her, she’s amazing with computers and we need someone to take care of security. I know she can.” 

“You seem confident,” Nicky remarked from the other side of the room. 

Quynh chuckled, shooting a glance at Andy. Andy raised an eyebrow, but smiled back at her knowingly. 

Quynh mused, “I can just say...she’s _gifted_ in her field. Technology and hacking.” 

“Good enough, I suppose,” Nicky mused. 

Andy gave him a hug next, leaving Booker and Quynh staring at the painting. Despite it being his work, and despite knowing how many hours he’d put into it, it didn’t _feel_ like his. Perhaps that was just due to being a forgery, it literally was _not_ his, but the other alternative was that he’d already accepted its fate lie in the Louvre, and not with him. 

He’d have to go back soon. Again. Despite having gone what felt like yesterday, he knew he’d need to keep up regular visits. Plus, he’d submitted the paperwork needed to get hired as a restorationist–all they had to do was accept it and hire him. Hopefully, the cards would play out well. Or, maybe, that would be another thing to talk to Copley about…

Booker tore his gaze away from the painting and looked up to the wall that Nicky had started. It wasn’t much, but based on the stack of paper next to him, he was just getting started. 

“So,” Booker finally started, turning to face Andy and Quynh, who had gone back to standing near each other. “Are you in, or are you out?”

* * *

Booker stepped in behind Nile, though he nearly rammed into her as soon as he'd shut the door behind them. She'd stopped walking. 

"Oh. My God," she mumbled. "Book, it's been two days." 

"Nicky helped." 

Layering the brick wall, starting at the back of the studio, was a thin covering of cloth. Over it, however, a layer of pages were already pinned to the wall. Some pages had string attaching them together, some had visible highlights on them from the door, and some had clearly been pulled down and placed on the whiteboard with magnets. Currently, to make things better, Nicky was trying to write on the whiteboard, but kept smudging some of the letters when his hand ran over it. 

“That doesn’t make it better,” she pointed out, tossing her bag onto a chair. Moving deeper into the room, she began to walk along the wall, observing all the notes they’d printed and scribbled. “Is this all the Louvre? Or is it other stuff?”

“Mostly Louvre,” Nicky remarked, “mostly security measures and layouts. Booker hasn’t built the model yet.” 

“I need to know where it’s being kept first. And besides, it’s getting _started_ today. Quynh should be coming back with supplies within the hour.” 

“Good God,” Nile mumbled. Her steps carried her up to stand right in front of the wall, her eyes narrowing in on a particular page. “How do you have security information here already?”

“Little bit of research, digging,” Booker explained. “It wasn’t as bad as you’d think, all things considered. How the systems work, we’re still working on, but it seems pretty advanced from everything I could find already. If I can get Copley in on this, she’ll be able to figure it out pretty easily, I imagine.” 

“You still need to talk to her,” Nile pointed out. She stepped away from the wall, turning to stand toe-to-toe with Booker. “Soon, too.”

He nodded. “She’s coming to Paris soon, don’t worry.” 

Nile nodded once, slipping away from him to go investigate the other parts of the wall that had been assembled. She walked up and down it slowly, taking in every word and diagram on the pages, it seemed. It gave Booker the time to get water from the sink and eventually let Quynh back inside with the supplies for the model Louvre. He’d set to building that shortly, painting the areas that would matter since he wanted to keep out of as much of the museum that wasn’t strictly critical to the job off the table. It was too big, too much could go wrong if they went too far out. 

He started by pulling up a map and beginning to build based off of it. Quynh kept pieces steady for him, or assisted in the gluing down if she wasn’t labeling specific areas with a highlighter on the paper it was sitting on. Quynh had even bought a small set of pieces to represent the painting itself, which they could set down in the proper space once it was more or less constructed. 

Eventually, Andy appeared too, offering moral support but mostly standing to the side with Nicky, peering at the wall and helping pull some pieces of information together. 

Nile, eventually, wandered over to stare into the model Louvre that was just now beginning to look fairly put together. Could’ve been a lot better, of course, and eventually it would be, but that would take a couple days at minimum, two weeks at most. How detailed Booker would be able to get it also depended heavily on whether or not he could get Copley involved…

“What’s the play, then? Do we have an idea yet?” Nile asked, glancing between Booker and Quynh as they hovered over the beginning structure. “I mean of how we’re going to take this thing, of course.” 

Slowly, Booker shook his head. “Not...completely yet. I’m just worried about museum layout right now, but I’m sure while we’re looking through this and figuring out where the damn painting is actually being kept, we’ll have–” 

Nile chuckled, effectively cutting him off without meaning to. “There’s a gala,” she told him bluntly, opening her laptop back up and turning it so he could see. “In a few months. Aren’t big events the ideal time to steal things, especially considering how busy security would be?”

The room fell completely silent, Booker’s eyes locked on the screen presented to him while Nile slowly began to grin. 

“I think that...no, that makes perfect sense. Nobody’s tried to steal her in almost two centuries, they won’t be expecting a thing.” Booker slowly allowed a sloppy grin to overtake his face. “Nile Freeman, you’re a genius.” 

It was enough to get Nicky to wander over and poke his head over Nile’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Have you heard about a gala coming up? In the Louvre?” Booker asked, watching Nicky slowly shake his head and his eyebrows furrow together. “Looks like...late summer gala. Fundraising. Can you give Nile printer access? At least the cord—let her print out some stuff to put on the wall.” 

“I can do that, of course.” Nicky gestured for Nile to follow him back to where the printer was housed.

Once they’d turned their backs to him, Booker found the smile slowly coming back. He wasn’t expecting Nile to be looking into things to help them—in all honesty, he’d been anticipating her working on an essay or thesis or just reading an ebook for her school. Basically, not helping them. He didn’t assume she would, but he was pleasantly surprised (and almost proud, perhaps) that she was trying to help.

Quynh gave Booker a small shove. Enough to get his attention, but not enough to make him fall over even if she was more than capable of doing just that on accident.

“You’re smitten, Book,” Quynh remarked as she got back to working on the model. Her hands and wrists were a lot smaller than his, so she could get into the nooks and crannies to lock things down while he could pay attention to the details of the matter.

Still, he rolled his eyes. “As if I didn’t know that.” 

“I’m glad you found something to anchor you,” she continued, voice gone quieter. “I’m glad that you didn’t ask her to fix you, too.” 

“I don’t know how I could ever ask her to do something like that for me. Not when the last thing I deserve anyways is _her_ ,” he pointed out. 

Quynh scoffed. “I’ve known far too many men who would take advantage of a woman like that and allow her to try to fix him.” 

“I’m still getting better,” he reminded her. It was a gentle reminder, but still needed.

“But the steps are your own. She’s just there to be your cheerleader when you need it most. Support is all you can ask for,” Quynh mused. “We all have your back, but...she’s got it better than the rest of us probably could.” 

Slowly, he nodded. “How did I get so lucky?”

“You’re not as lucky as me, but you’re pretty damn close, so the answer is still _I don’t know_.” 

Booker could’ve sworn he caught Andy’s glance then, a fond smirk on her face despite the fact she was focused on writing something down on a piece of paper fresh from the printer. 

“I’d argue any other day,” Booker settled on saying. “But I don’t want you to break my model.” 

“Wise decision.” Quynh looked up to him with a mischievous grin, but didn’t say anything more on the matter. Instead, she began to talk about what she and Andy had been doing for the past few weeks while the team had been split apart.

Supposedly, London was fun for them. They’d had a routine (before Booker had so rudely called them out to Paris, at least) that was working, something that helped keep most of Quynh’s wits about her on the bad days and kept things smooth on the good. That included a little cafe that brewed coffee the exact way Quynh liked, and made a pastry that Andy could never shut up about. It seemed pleasant, if nothing else. 

They would probably be finding a studio of their own to rent for a few months in Paris while they worked on the whole Mona Lisa thing. Booker wasn’t surprised by that fact. Supposedly, Andy was already looking at cute little places nearby. 

Dinner consisted of takeout that Joe brought in with him once he’d gotten everything squared away for his next week of classes. Sitting on the floor in a small circle together, the six found a comfortable silence between them while they consumed the Chinese food. 

It was something Booker could get used to again, he discovered quickly. Perhaps it was even the one thing he missed about being on the road. 

They’d be moving again soon. Probably once the Mona Lisa was stolen, and the semester was over. That way they could move again, no strings attached, get back to living safehouse to safehouse and making sure they weren’t caught, working towards bettering the world again.

Booker stuck his fork in a piece of chicken and sighed to himself. It’d be good to get back to business. Just not today. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me in other places, too! i'm on tumblr @[andromachesimp](https://andromachesimp.tumblr.com), and while you're down here, you can also [listen to the playlist i wrote this fic to](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1bwQKwtbcPJcysGomjznoZ?si=eJC1jTESQbiKtubDFil1Yg)! while you're down here, i'm gonna plug @[theturtlelives](https://theturtlelives.tumblr.com/) again because you should really give her a follow and look at her amazing art
> 
> now, with my final breaths, i bless you with a [chapterly cursed mashup](https://youtu.be/isbn7Cyzx3A) that booker would totally unironically enjoy.
> 
> stay dangerous.


	4. The Mark

Jane Oliveres had inherited the name  _ Copley  _ about seven years ago (perhaps to the day). 

She hadn’t admittedly been anyone particularly spectacular before, with any prime agencies or in the midst of ongoing battles, simply someone who had caught on to research that had been previously put out into the world in papers and essays and books; of all people, she had the guts to go deeper into it. 

It was at this stage that Jane Oliveres became an interesting target. 

She found Original Copley’s research. How, not even Booker could find out, but she began to hunt them down out of seemingly curiosity but was coming at them with an entirely new arsenal. See, despite not being a part of any major agencies, she certainly had pissed a fair amount of them off, and worked little side jobs for them when they needed someone better than what they currently had in their roster. And Jane was one of the best with computers on the entire planet, it seemed, on some days. 

Record time, even, it had been when she found them. Stumbled across their trail in Kyiv and followed it until she hit them hiding out in Pilar. 

After that, the only option was to adopt her into their strange little family (it was that or kill her, but considering Andy had been impressed with the effort and lengths she’d gone to, killing her wasn’t really an option). Besides, they’d recently lost their second Copley, and were in the market for a replacement, so the timing was near perfect. 

And Jane Oliveres, standing in front of Booker now, seven years later, had barely aged a day. Considering she’d only been in her late twenties, early thirties at most when they picked her up, it wasn’t a strange thing to think about. 

“You found the studio–?” Booker began, his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

She merely chuckled and brushed past him, at ease as if she were riding the wind. “What, you thought I wouldn’t? It’s my job to keep tabs on you, isn’t it?”

“I thought I’d be picking you up from the train station,” he admitted.

“Well, thought I’d surprise you. Make it easier on all of us,” she stated. “I keep forgetting how much of a pain French is though. Always sound like I’m hacking up a lugey.”

Booker scoffed, shutting the door behind them and turning to face her. “Just say you prefer Spanish, I’ll understand.”

“It’s the best of the romance languages! Italian might come second–”

“You only say that because they’re similar.” 

“I have never studied Italian, not a day in my life, but I can get the gist of what’s going on, on rare occasion.”

Booker chuckled. “Never tell Nicky that part.” 

“Listen, they sound very similar. Not my fault.” A pause, her eyes locking on to the painting that had been moved into direct sunlight (an attempt to wash out the colors just a bit, considering how pigmented it currently appeared). “Is that…?”

“Not the real thing, no. You’re here because I need help stealing the real thing and replacing it with that.” 

Copley pinched the bridge of her nose. “ _ Ay dios mio.  _ You all will be the death of me.” 

Slowly, Booker cracked a smile, found a chuckle in his chest. “Hey, I don’t mean to be at least.” 

“Yes you do, and you’re a terrible liar.” Copley sighed loudly. “What do you need me to do?”

“Firstly, I need you to help me get a job as a restorationist for the Louvre—they’re looking for someone to work on the Mona Lisa, I’ve heard. Second...Do you know about the term  _ Radio Shack _ ?”

“Oh, Christ.”

* * *

Getting into the Louvre was easy. Going through the needed process to be a restorationist for them was almost easier. What was hard was passing by all of the different paintings that were gorgeous—almost too gorgeous—and should have been displayed in any other world. No,  _ would  _ have been displayed in any other world. And here they were, down in the basement, collecting dust. 

His job was easy down here: committing the layout to memory while he got his work done. Simple, easy.

But Booker was becoming very glad he’d be able to come back again and continue working at night, considering that he was too busy trying not to fall over and wheeze on the ground at the amount of paintings and sculptures and  _ art _ they had here that were simply not on display. 

God bless Copley for getting him this job. Single handedly, despite him being the one to put everything in, she’d made him the prime candidate and the only fit for the job. How, Booker didn’t even want to ask, but he’d take whatever he could get in this case. 

The security team that was escorting him wasn’t particularly chatty. In fact, they’d hardly said a word to him once they’d ensured his identity was true beyond “follow me” and then proceeded to disappear into the labyrinth of the museum. And into the basement. Hence, here.

And good  _ God  _ almighty was there a lot of art in the basement. 

However, there was also a small office about halfway through the walk through the large storeroom, one that Booker was ushered into. There wasn’t a Mona Lisa in there, or anything that needed explicit restoration at that very instant from what he could tell, but there  _ was  _ a spindly man behind the desk, salt and pepper hair and a crooked nose despite seeming younger than fifty. 

“Ah, you must be Sebastien,” the man said, getting up quickly and going to shake Booker’s hand. “I have to admit, you’re not exactly who I was expecting, but I’m glad to have you nonetheless. You’re the restorationist?”

“That’d be me, yes,” Booker answered, giving him a smile. 

“I’m Thomas, pleasure to meet you. Please, come with me.” 

Booker was not particularly thrilled about having to walk through more storerooms, then down a hallway into another storeroom, but it was good to keep in mind for sake of considering the time it would take to get the painting down and moved. And security! For fuck’s sake, Booker got to watch Thomas pass through three security checkpoints in a matter of minutes, and though he could memorize the kind of checkpoints they were, there was no way any code he memorized would still be working in a few months.

Clearly, the room they’d entered was where they kept the particularly important art. Booker couldn’t help but watch more paintings as they passed by, unable to completely focus on Thomas and what kind of small talk he was trying to make. Booker’s  _ mouth  _ could be on autopilot while his brain focused on the other things in the room, but still. 

The small clear-looking room in the back was clearly where Booker would be going. From this distance, it appeared to be glass, but the closer he got, the more he realized the sheen was slightly off until Thomas had opened the door and ushered Booker in. He locked the two of them inside immediately after, and Booker was stopped in his tracks almost instantly at the sight of what was on the table.

_ Her.  _

The original. Clearly in need of some work, but she still lay there, peering up miraculously at him as if he held all the answers in the world. As if she were reading him like a book, his hopes and dreams and wishes and nightmares. His fingers ached to touch her, but the restraint kicked in. Good God, he couldn’t even focus on what Thomas was saying—was Thomas saying anything? Maybe not, maybe that was just the sound of Booker’s heart in his ears.

There was something entrancing about the painting in front of him. That was just what art usually did to him, upon second thought, but this time he knew it was different. 

“That’s a fake on the floor, then, I assume?” Booker asked once he found the words, finally tearing his eyes away from the painting and looking over the supplies in front of him. His hands were still aching to touch her in some way, some shape, some form, but he held onto the scrap of patience he had left. “To keep people from catching on.”

“We usually keep the real one on display at all times,” Thomas explained, but still nodded. “It’s been more difficult in recent times, considering the damage she’s been taking. She’s been spending more and more time down here, just resting while we waited for a new restorationist to come in.”

Booker didn’t take a chance to consider. No, instead he was back to staring at the painting and just taking her in. So close, he was  _ so close _ , but so far. 

“Everyone’s like that at first,” Thomas remarked, chuckling quietly. “It takes a second to click that the real thing is sitting in front of you.”

“Yeah,” Booker said, though it was more of a nervous laugh. “Holy  _ shit _ .”

Thomas watched him work. So did the four armed guards standing outside the little clear plastic box of a room Booker had to work in. At least it was well ventilated, though it’s not as though that would have mattered for him. For Thomas? Probably. Booker had inhaled his body weight and then some in paint fumes over the years, the scent had become nearly inviting to him, something to remind him of home. 

His hands got to work, excruciatingly careful in every movement he made with the painting. Not that it was a bad idea to do so, but more that he was still reeling over the fact that he was actually doing this, actually got to play doctor for the painting he’d be stealing from them soon enough. Still, he was assessing the damages and figuring out what he’d need to do to stall and buy them enough time to finish concocting their plan and carrying it out. 

“This could take a while,” Booker admitted. “Not an excessive amount of time, but it will take time.” 

“We thought so. Is it too much to ask for it to be done before our fundraising gala?”

Booker’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Fundraising gala…?”

“It’s in two weeks.” 

He hesitated, thinking it over. Two weeks? That was easy to work with. “I can’t make any promises,” he admitted, “A month? Definitely, but two weeks is pushing it considering there will be times I want to wait for the paint to completely dry, and obviously I’m using oil.”

Thomas sighed. “Right. It’s not the end of the world if you can’t, but an attempt would be appreciated.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

He didn’t stay to start getting work done. They simply hadn’t wanted him to, but he also  _ did  _ have a class to go lecture on the importance of art history, so he had time to sit in his classroom and think while he tried to gather up the notes he’d made a few nights ago. The problem was that he couldn’t necessarily focus on everything that was immediately around him, not when he’d come so close and stared his goal in the face.

The class passed quickly. He was grateful.

The walk, and metro ride, home was quick too. It kept him from dwelling on things too long and gave his head a chance to relax, swim in thoughts that weren’t important and didn’t have to do with stealing a priceless artifact from a museum. Rather, he could think about how he wanted to take Nile out in the coming weekend. They  _ should  _ have been planning, or going back to the Louvre, but instead he’d promised her some time he thought was probably much needed. They  _ needed  _ them time in this whole mess.

Nile was waiting for Booker at home. Perhaps waiting was a strong word, considering she was working on stuff for her school, but she still hadn’t left to go see Andy and Quynh yet, so...maybe she had waited. 

She shut the computer as soon as he had taken off his shoes. Her laptop went onto the coffee table, and she slowly rose to walk over to him and throw her arms around him in a lazy sort of hug. Despite that, however, she still hugged tightly and allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. Instinctively, out of habit, his hands traveled to her waist and his arms wrapped around her.

“How did it go?” she asked quietly. “Everything good? You get what you needed?”

“Sort of,” he admitted. “I get to go back soon, so I’m not concerned yet.” 

Nile nodded. “That’s good,” she mumbled.

“It is,” he agreed.

“Andy and Quynh want us over for dinner. Nicky and Joe are coming too, but I think they’re getting there a little later than we’re supposed to. Copley’s probably joining us too.” 

Booker didn’t want to leave now that he had Nile on him. Now that they were standing in each other’s embrace. He slowly shut his eyes and sighed. 

“Alright, that sounds good,” he said quietly. “And they’re hosting, so we don’t have to worry about cleaning up.” 

“If it makes you feel better, we don’t have to stay for too long. I can say I have to finish my work and should get to sleep early,” Nile mused.

Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t have a preference on how long we stay for. I’d rather not be there until morning, of course, but I wouldn’t complain.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Nile mused with a quiet chuckle. “It’s okay. We’ll see how we feel.” 

Booker pressed a small kiss to the top of her head and slowly pulled away. “I’ll get changed then, we can head over. Sound good?”

“Of course.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me in other places, too! i'm on tumblr @[andromachesimp](https://andromachesimp.tumblr.com), and while you're down here, you can also [listen to the playlist i wrote this fic to](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1bwQKwtbcPJcysGomjznoZ?si=eJC1jTESQbiKtubDFil1Yg)! while you're down here, i'm gonna plug @[theturtlelives](https://theturtlelives.tumblr.com/) again because you should really give her a follow and look at her amazing art
> 
> now, with my final breaths, i bless you with a [chapterly cursed mashup](https://youtu.be/m7JXbsJyt54) that booker would totally unironically enjoy. you know i had to do it to em. just be aware i almost threw in the sexyback x home depot mashup but decided against it. you've been saved.
> 
> stay classy.


	5. The Chemist

“We need to age her still,” Joe pointed out, giving his decaf a small stir. They were lounging in a cafe, not too far from the studio, but taking the time for fresh air nonetheless. “She’s too young, clearly. Anyone that looks at her is going to marvel at how clear a six hundred year old painting is.” 

Booker let his head fall back, sighing quietly as the thought ran through his head. “I know how to do it,” he remarked, his French taking on a much slower rate of fire. “But I also...it has to be an exact kind of aging, and that’s what scares me. Never mind that this is my baby.” 

Joe’s eyes darted up to stare bullets into Booker, cocking an eyebrow for a brief moment before he nodded at an angle. “Is she dry?”

“Yeah, completely.” 

“I can do it,” he said simply. “Just give me the time to get the supplies.” 

“I know how, that’s not the issue.” 

Joe nodded, the faintest smile breaking out over his face. “I know, Sebastien. That’s not what I’m worried about. We’ve both seen her, both know what she looks like. But, if you let me do it, it also gives you and Nicky more time to lock in the plan, go back to the Louvre.” 

“I’ve already been three times this week, I’m sick of it,” he mumbled. 

“Hey, you’re the one that wanted to know how the sun shone off the floor at precisely three forty three.” 

“And I regret it.” Booker leaned back in the chair, shutting his eyes. “It needs to get done, you’re right. I just don’t want to do it.  _ Fuck _ . How long will it take you to get supplies?”

“A day. Maybe two, if things are sold out.” 

Booker slowly nodded again. “How long do you think the process will take you?”

“Considering I’ll be in the studio with you all? A week or so, just to make sure I have it perfect.” Joe nodded as well, sipping at his decaf again. “Not that the point is for it to be good enough that they think it’s the original, just enough to buy us time.” 

“I’m not too worried about smuggling it out of the country, but we are going to have to find a place to hide it until we can,” Booker added on. 

Joe hummed quietly, carefully setting down the little cup. “Not the studio. As soon as we get it, you’re taking everything in there down and starting a new  _ original  _ painting.” 

“Of course, of course.” 

“We could...try giving it to Copley? She’s got a good spot it could potentially sit in until we can take it to wherever we wanted to leave it.” 

Booker nodded again. “I’m wary to take it out to the country house now, just in case they trace it back, but Copley would cover her steps almost too thoroughly.” 

“We’re just going to have to present it to her.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You want me to what?”

Joe sighed, absently messing with his rings while Booker paced behind him.

“Can you take the painting with you back to England?” Booker asked, shooting glances over to Copley every now and then. “We could house it here, just...might be safer if it went with someone who could cover their tracks like no other.” 

Copley sighed, rubbing her face and mumbling a quiet string of swears in Spanish. “What’s the plan? What  _ exactly  _ are we doing with this?”

“Eventually? It’s gonna go into the House. But it can’t just arbitrarily go deeper into France when the entire world may be looking for it.” 

“So...not only am I playing Radio Shack for you, but I’m also carrying the most expensive painting in the world across the English Channel?” Copley scoffed, shaking her head. “Sign me up.” 

“Oh thank God,” Booker mumbled to himself, stepping away from the two. 

Joe pushed himself up to his feet as well, gently squeezing past Booker to make his way into the main part of the studio, where the painting was set up. He watched Joe walk over to the stool and sit himself in front of the Mona Lisa. He was incredibly careful when he was working on aging the painting (and had gotten the supplies in a matter of hours as opposed to days), which left Booker to fix up coffee for himself and Copley.

“So. Jane. Uhh...how do you take your coffee?” 

“I drink cappuccinos.” 

Booker reluctantly moved to the small counter he had. “I can do that.” 

She was quiet, but he could feel her eyes staring bullets into his back as he fumbled around with the coffee. “You’re taking this whole thing very seriously,” she mused, “in regards to the Mona Lisa I mean. Of all targets to go after...that’s the one you pick?”

“Well, yes.” Booker nodded, not looking back to her. “We’ve already done Rembrandts and Klimts and Van Goghs...but never a da Vinci. And if we’re going to go for something big, why not go for the biggest? Though, I suppose I also did just happen to have a forgery completed. Joe said it looked fantastic.” 

“I did not!” came from the other room abruptly. “I said it was the best work you’d done yet!” 

Booker could practically hear Copley’s eye roll when she chuckled. “Only he corrects other people to be positive.” 

“Just sickening, isn’t it?” 

“I can still hear you!” 

Booker was pouring by then, laughing quietly to himself. He was quick to offer the cup to Copley, turning back to make himself one as well.

She hummed quietly, clearly satisfied. “You’d make a good barista, Booker.” 

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Doesn’t make it less true,” she stated. “Have to put your hands to use doing something, I take it?”

His eyebrows furrowed briefly, and he turned to look at her. “I don’t follow.” 

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You seem to take after activities that require you to use your hands. Painting, writing...coffee–no, barista...ing? Oh for fuck’s sake, you get the point.” She laughed quietly. 

“I don’t write. Not anymore.” 

“I’ve read your blog, don’t pull that shit with me.” 

“Hey–! That is  _ personal shit  _ in there!” 

Copley shook her head. “You guys pay me to keep tabs on you, of course I was going to find it.” 

Booker turned once he had his own cup of coffee, carefully sipping at it to test the temperature. Nothing he couldn’t handle. “Glad to know you do your job. Reassuring.” 

She laughed, cocking an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said. No cap.” Booker’s eyebrows furrowed. “Is that still a phrase? No cap?”

“Good god, I forgot I deal with old people. No, nobody says that anymore. Please don’t.” 

“Deadass?” came from the other side of the room. Booker could  _ hear  _ Joe’s grin even if he wasn’t looking to see it.

Copley took another drink from her cup. “I would walk out of here right now if this was empty.” 

Instead of lingering much longer with Copley, Booker found himself trailing across the studio to stand a few paces behind Joe, watching him work. He’d put on glasses for the job, something Joe didn’t quite need, but definitely would help focus on the detail. It seemed a meticulously tedious process, Joe’s shoulders hunched over as he worked, but he seemed to be so wrapped up in it that he didn’t even notice Booker standing behind him. 

It was different, watching someone else work. Booker knew how to copy things exactly, his eyes knew where to look and he had enough technical skill to make things look  _ exactly  _ how they should. But Joe wasn’t being exact with his aging. In the large places he’d started, he had to be, but in the finite details, he seemed to simply know what to do without study. Whether or not it was correct, it  _ felt  _ correct.

There was something about that kind of artistry that Booker didn’t understand, as much as he wanted to.

He stepped away from Joe shortly, instead of lingering choosing to go back to the wall and start drawing up some ideas for how to counter security. Despite having Copley on board, he still needed to figure out ways to get around it in case she couldn’t handle something. People, for example, couldn’t be handled even if technology was perfectly malleable to her. 

Nicky was more of the genius behind this sort of thing. Seeing the holes in the security and gaps that were easily accessible. But he wouldn’t be here for some time more, so Booker had to settle with himself for now.

After an hour of struggling to put some basic ideas to paper, with Copley busy watching Joe work when she wasn’t typing away quietly on a laptop, Andy and Quynh arrived with Nile in tow. Quynh and Nile were finishing the model together, a side project that had somehow become closer to Quynh’s child than Booker’s, which left Andy with little to do but wander over to Booker and stand next to his scraps in an attempt for a plan. Her arms crossed over her chest, the faintest smirk on her face.

“You need help?” It was a question, not a statement, but still rhetorical.

Slowly, Booker nodded. “I know we don’t usually plan this kind of stuff, but we can’t risk–”

“I’m not an idiot, Book, I know how hard this is gonna be,” Andy stated, pushing some of the papers apart to read them over. “So, we need a way to get the fake into the basement and the real thing out without anyone seeing. It’s a good idea to use the gala as a distraction, but…” 

“But?”

“Heightened security in some areas, lax in others. We’ll probably have to deal with the potential for more door guards, but less in the actual storerooms, if I had to guess,” Andy pointed out. “And it may be a good idea to have at least one person out in the gala itself, able to start a distraction if something comes close to going wrong.” 

Booker nodded slowly, starting to scribble it down in a strange form of shorthand. “Right, that makes sense.” 

“Quynh is exceptionally good at getting into small places, and rather flexible at that, so you want her with you in the basement, just in case. Nicky blends in to generally any environment you put him into, considering his appearance, so it may be a good idea to let him try to be a silent chameleon.” Andy paused, then shook her head. “Let Joe transport the painting. He’ll be the most careful with it, excluding you, but I don’t think you should be caught dead with that thing. Considering you technically work for the museum, that’d be an entire identity busted open and a lot of work for Copley that we don’t want to force onto her.” 

This was all making sense. Booker was beginning to wonder why they didn’t try to do things like this more often, or why he hadn’t asked Andy for help on the other art heists he’d pulled.

“Nile is the most charming out of all of us, you should definitely put her in the position to go into the gala,” Andy concluded. “Does positioning of everyone help you at all?”

“More than you know,” Booker admitted.

She chuckled quietly. “I figured. Now, just because you know where they are doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods yet. Where’s Nicky? Is he coming soon? I want to get his opinion on some of the things I’m about to suggest.” 

“Give him another ten minutes, I think.” 

Andy smiled and nodded. “So, while we wait, what do you know about the security? Any print out pages? Any holes you’ve noticed in your countless visits to the Louvre?”

* * *

It had only taken, with Andy’s help primarily (and Nicky’s too, but he’d been busy when they were trying to throw the plan together), a week to get a concrete idea into place for how to handle the upcoming situation. Booker’s habit of pacing on the rug he’d thrown down in recent days while he thought was carrying over; as he tried to formulate the words to say to the people that were expectantly watching him, he paced along the rug. 

Nile gave him a reassuring smile, one that he had to briefly return. 

“Base plan?” he finally began. “We move in during the gala. Copley’s waiting nearby in the van we’re renting. Nicky’s roving around in disguise, catering first, security second. Joe’s with the painting we’re swapping out, handing it off to Quynh and Nicky who are waiting for him. Nile and Andy create a distraction at the gala itself, giving Copley the window for mistakes, just in case–”

She scoffed, kicking her legs up on the table. “I don’t make mistakes,” Copley mused.

“In case something takes longer than expected,” Booker reiterated. “We exit the way we came in, going back to the studio to do cleanup and Joe’s starting a new painting for me. By the end of the night, I’m picking Nile and Andy up from the gala, and we take Copley to the airport, painting in hand.” 

A short sigh escaped Booker’s chest, and he glanced between the wall and the giant sheet of paper he had behind him.

“Alright. Gala starts at seventeen hundred hours, which means that’s when Nile and Andy arrive,” he began to run through again, nodding slowly as he wrote it down.

“No, wait–it starts at fourteen-thirty,” Nicky corrected. “That’s when the catering company arrives.” 

“Shit.” Booker didn’t have to change much, just the seven into a four. He hadn’t written much down by the time Nicky corrected him, but it was easy enough to fix.

“Fourteen thirty, Nicky arrives. Seventeen hundred, Nile and Andy arrive. Remember, you’re large donors, and we’re going to have to dress you to go with that.” Booker nodded once. “By seventeen forty five, Copley is set up and ready to get going, which means probably arriving at seventeen fifteen. By eighteen hundred, Nicky is swapped to security, and Quynh and I are in by eighteen twenty, south side of the museum. Eighteen forty, Joe with the painting is coming in from the southeast.” 

This was taking longer to write than Booker had been anticipating. Still, nobody had questions for him while he wrote, nor did they ask any questions. 

“We’re taking into consideration the way guard posts could shift for the gala, which leaves us a very small window of opportunity to get into the hall that leads to the basement,” Booker added, “and even with the cameras being in our favor, we’re going to have to make sure we go through unseen and unheard. We don’t need anyone on high alert, and if we can get through this without tipping  _ anyone  _ off that something’s wrong, that’ll be better.” 

Quynh sighed, letting her head fall back onto Andy’s shoulder. “So when you say unseen, do you mean completely unseen, or just resorting to knocking people out instead of killing them?”

“...let’s try not to get the Swiss Guard called on us.” 

“I figured.” 

“Do we have a map of all of this, Book?” Joe asked, his eyebrows furrowed together. 

Nicky nudged him before Booker could open his mouth, though. “We’re going to go through this with the model again after. Go through the list with that,” Nicky promised.

Then, Booker continued. “By nineteen hundred hours, we’re in the basement. If we’re walking quickly, it takes about twenty, twenty five minutes to get from the stairs to her storeroom. Either way, we wait until nineteen thirty precisely to make the switch, giving us the extra ten minutes in case we run into issues with the doors. Quynh changes clothes and leaves with Joe from the southeast, out by twenty hundred hours, Nicky and I leave via the south by nineteen fifty five. Joe and Quynh take the car back to the studio, Nicky and I meet Copley back at the van and make our way back that way. We’re taking my rental car to pick up Andy and Nile from the gala at twenty one thirty, and by twenty three hundred we have Copley back at the airport. Does that make sense?”

A circle of people nodding at him slowly. 

Booker nodded in return, taking a deep breath. He definitely had too much coffee before this.

“We still have a few weeks,” he reiterated, “but I’m gonna start from the top, using the model now.” 

Andy audibly groaned before he could finish the sentence. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me in other places, too! i'm on tumblr @[andromachesimp](https://andromachesimp.tumblr.com), and while you're down here, you can also [listen to the playlist i wrote this fic to](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1bwQKwtbcPJcysGomjznoZ?si=eJC1jTESQbiKtubDFil1Yg)! while you're down here, i'm gonna plug @[theturtlelives](https://theturtlelives.tumblr.com/) again because you should really give her a follow and look at her amazing art
> 
> now, with my final breaths, i bless you with a [chapterly cursed mashup](https://youtu.be/SNYwJiadtjA) that booker would totally unironically enjoy. for reference i hate the peas. i don't think booker does though.
> 
> stay dirty.


	6. The Extractor

Nile looked absolutely stunning. 

Well, strictly speaking, she always did, but tonight was special in a different sort of way. Booker almost wished he could’ve just gone to the gala with her, had an excuse to spend the night with her when they’d both dressed for the occasion, but it would have to wait for another night. 

“Do you have everything?” Nile asked before he could get a word in. “Everything’s loaded in the van, you have your earpiece, we’re all set?”

Booker checked his pockets briefly, but still nodded. He’d done most of this last night, run through it again when he couldn’t sleep, then passed out until two in the afternoon. 

“We’re all set. You’re gonna do great,” Booker promised with a small smile. “Make sure Andy doesn’t do anything stupid, please. Next time, I’ll bring you with me into the vault if you’d like, I promise.” 

Nile laughed quietly, moving in front of Booker with a swift and swishing movement. Her dress was flowy, in that regard. “I’d like to at least try it out once and see if I like it. But I’m glad you aren’t trying to drag me into the vault of the _Louvre_ on my first show.” 

“Andy’s idea, mostly, but I had to agree with her.” 

Nile gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. “Sure, sure. As long as I can get in on the next one.” 

“I’d never say no to you,” Booker promised with a soft smile, kissing her gently. It broke practically as fast as they’d connected, Booker checking his watch and sighing to himself. “You need to get to Andy’s, I need to go catch Copley. I’ll see you tonight, Nile.” 

She maneuvered around him to open the door, glancing back once with a wry little smile on her face. “I’ll see you tonight. We’re gonna do great.” 

“I know, I know.” 

She left him alone in the apartment with that. 

He spent a few minutes gathering up bags he needed to take with him to Copley’s van (three in total, he hadn’t gone overboard) before officially departing as well, taking the route of a short walk a few blocks to where Copley had holed herself up. Her van was across the street, and once he’d located it, he opted to call her to let her know he’d arrived instead of hauling the three bags up the stairs. That just sounded painful, more painful than he had the energy for at that current moment in time.

“ _What?_ ” she’d answered before three rings had gone by.

“I’m here, outside. Next to the car. Can you unlock it?”

“ _Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right down._ ”

A quiet little beep sounded, allowing Booker to slide open the door and toss in the bags that had started to wear down his shoulders. Maybe _boxing_ would be a good hobby to get back into, he suddenly considered, massaging his shoulder. Not necessarily an imperative hobby, but something to pass by the empty time when they started back on the road again. 

Copley crossed the street with her hands in the pockets of her sweatpants, almost seeming to have just woken up. Booker knew better; she’d probably spent the past hour or so looking like this, but who was he to judge.

She simply climbed into the driver’s side and started the car, clearly his cue to get in and strap in. He stayed in the back with the supplies, hoping her driving wasn’t something that would get him killed back here but willing to take the risk anyways. He busied himself with staring at the ceiling, running through the plan step by step over and over again in his head. It was memorized, ingrained into every fiber of his being. He could’ve, by now, stolen this painting with his eyes closed. So why was he so worried? Just because he wanted it done and over with?

They picked up Quynh on the way over, and she chose to linger in the back with Booker on a pile of jackets. Considering the only other spot to sit was a chair that had been strapped to a desk, it was probably the most comfortable option she could’ve found. 

They didn’t talk, though, the entire drive over. Booker had nothing to say other than worrying, and undoubtedly Quynh didn’t want to open the can of worms that would be.

When they parked, and Copley finally crawled into the back to begin setting up her monitors, Booker simply watched. Offered his help once, got a death glare and told _no_ , then continued to watch. She was precise but quick about it, her fingers nimbly turning on each screen one by one until she finally powered the machine on. 

She rolled out her shoulders, then propped her legs up on the desk as she put on a headset to turn on and connect. Watching her get into the system on its own was fascinating, if for no other reason than how fast she burned through the opening firewalls and weaseled her way into a comfortable corner of their security. It seemed like only a matter of minutes (though had to be longer) before she had the camera system up for display. 

Copley pulled out a bag of cheetos from under the desk once the base had been built, popping it open and leaning back. 

It reminded Booker to put in his own earpiece and turn it on. How much they’d use it, he didn’t realistically know. 

He continued to watch the copious amount of screens Copley had in front of her, pulling on his boots since he had nothing better to do than prepare in advance. Quynh was already set to go, lingering next to Copley and watching what she was doing as well. Every now and then, Copley would press a finger to her headset to unmute herself, mumbling something into her mic. If she was addressing Nicky, it was in Spanish, but to Nile or Andy, it was English. She didn’t have much to say to Nile and Andy, but Nicky got a couple of remarks every now and then. A _duck behind that corner_ or _he’s looking at you funny, get out of there_. 

His watch seemed to not want to move, it felt like time was passing so slowly. It was only ten minutes until he and Quynh were supposed to go in, but his watch seemed to consistently want to move backwards instead of forwards. 

When the time came to finally move, Quynh was out of the van in a flash, her movements quick and easy out into the cool evening. Booker followed her, doing his best to keep a low profile as they hustled through the streets and over the fencing, keeping low to the ground in the dark until Quynh could begin the quick scramble up the scaffolding. What sort of renovations they were doing, Booker didn’t know, but he was grateful that they were. He hauled himself up after her, keeping low again once he was on the roof. It probably helped that they both knew where they were going. 

Quynh was the one to push her way into the museum from the door they found, prepared to fight on her way down but clearly surprised to find nobody waiting for her on the other side of the door. Booker shut the door behind them, gesturing to signal to Quynh that she could continue on down the stairs first. 

She led the way, taking several chances to wait behind a corner if she thought she heard footsteps coming from beneath them. 

“ _I’ve taken care of hallway security, I’d recommend making it snappy,_ ” Copley’s tinny voice came on through the earpiece.

Though unexpected, it didn’t startle Booker (to his own surprise). He simply shot a glance to Quynh and nodded once, watching her tear around the corner and be completely gone from sight by the time he’d pushed around as well. Yet, he paused, his legs not wanting to go forward when he heard the quiet steps coming from his left. Instead of making the dash after Quynh, he pulled back around the corner and waited, listening for the steps and waiting for them to continue. 

They stopped in the hall, the slow taps coming only briefly to give Booker the idea that whoever was there was turning, looking around. 

He waited with baited breath, his heart nearly aching from the effort.

The steps slowly trailed away after a few more moments, and Booker waited until they’d disappeared entirely to make the quick move across the hallway to join Quynh. 

She rolled her eyes, but began to walk towards the stairs that would take them down into the storeroom without needing the elevator. At least fire safety regulations had their backs in this, and at least Copley seemed to be keeping people off of their trail.

If Quynh didn’t nearly scream upon opening the door, Booker almost did. The sight of a person in the stairwell was enough to set him right on edge, even once he’d realized it was only Joe, waiting for them. He grinned lazily towards Booker and Quynh, shaking his head as he adjusted the portfolio bag on his shoulder.

“Took you guys long enough,” he mused. 

“How did you get here before us?” Booker asked, voice tinted with surprise.

Joe simply chuckled and made space to let them in. “Let’s just say I was guided along the express route.” 

Quynh rolled her eyes as hard as she could. Booker simply sighed and shook his head, gesturing towards the stairs.

“Let’s just...get this done quickly, yeah? I don’t like thinking about being shot in a museum stairwell,” Booker mumbled.

Unsurprisingly, the stairs down to the basement were clear. It was the hesitation once they were in the store rooms, unsure of how many guards would be stationed in the basement, but it seemed like no _person_ was keeping a watch down here. Truly unfortunate for them, to rely on their security system like this, but Copley wasn’t the normal sort of technologically advanced thief. 

“Keep an eye out,” Booker said anyways. “Just in case.” 

The basement was still cool, distinctly climate controlled. Booker’s steps through were careful and quiet, Quynh just up ahead of him. She stopped at a certain point to wait for him, allowing him to lead the way in the labyrinth he’d grown all too familiar with over his time beginning to restore the painting. The only downside was just simply how _big_ it was.

It was fifteen minutes before they reached the first door, dangerously close to being behind schedule (if Joe hadn’t shown up early, at least). 

He had his own code to get past the door, even if he never needed to use it since someone was always watching him like a hawk when he was down here and around the Mona Lisa, but but he _had_ memorized Thomas’s code, and found himself praying that Copley had a way to make it look marginally less suspicious. 

Slowly, once the green light flashed, the door swung open to reveal another section of storerooms. Joe peered in over Booker’s shoulder, sighing quietly. 

“This is it, hm?” he asked quietly, keeping close on Booker’s tail when they went in. “Let’s make it fast, if nothing else.” 

He’d nodded in acknowledgement, but vocally said no words as he began to lead them further back into the storerooms, past the crates and paintings and sculptures and _more_ crates. The little plastic room was in sight now, dimly lit enough to cast the surrounding few feet in a soft glow as they approached. When they finally stopped, it felt good to stop walking briefly, but Booker turned to look between Quynh and Joe (though, he wouldn’t lie, he was primarily looking at Quynh).

“Door’s locked, but it can be opened from the inside,” Booker explained quietly, glancing at Quynh. “You think you can get in?”

She chuckled, glancing up to the ceiling and peering inside the room. Finally, she gave her verdict. “Easily.” 

Quynh was quick to crawl up into the vent nearest the wall, using Booker to hoist her up, leaving Joe and Booker alone together briefly. It wasn’t too long, and honestly, Booker was too anxious to say much of anything. 

“Is someone there?” a voice called from the other side of the room. 

It didn’t take superior vision to see the guard, holding up a flashlight. Joe was already yanking Booker down behind a crate before he could think to move, but the next step was just hoping and praying that Quynh wouldn’t pop out into the room at the wrong time. Possible, yes, but good God, Booker had never hoped for reception in a basement more in his life. 

The flashlight trailed over the crate they were behind, steps began towards them briefly. But, they stopped abruptly, the crackle from a radio stopping the guard in his tracks. Booker exhaled slowly once he recognized the particularly bad French accent, and though he couldn’t quite make out what was being said from where he was (something about needing to take over a post briefly while an ordeal with the gala was handled), it was enough to know that Nicky was still looking out for them. 

The guard left quickly after acknowledging the message, though neither Booker nor Joe stood for a minute at minimum. Not until Quynh had pushed open the vent in the plastic room with the Mona Lisa did they stand, and Booker didn’t even make his way over and into the room until she’d unlocked the door for them and slowly pushed it open.

He stepped inside slowly, looking down at the table. He’d seen it before, dozens of times by now, but this time was different.

It was right there. Right in front of him. 

He put the gloves kept in his back pocket on, carefully reaching a latex-coated hand out to pluck up the Mona Lisa. It was about as heavy as he anticipated, not enough to need to use both hands except to stabilize it, and he carefully placed it into the paper they’d set out. It was quick wrapping, but he slid it into the portfolio case once he was sure it was safe, and zipped it shut again.

Quynh was slowly putting down the fake, getting it into the ideal position and pulling away once she’d clearly thought it was good. 

“We have time, now let’s get going,” she said, words clipped and blunt as she slid out of the door.

Joe shouldered the portfolio case, turning to glance back at Booker. “I’ll meet you back at the studio, alright? We gotta get out of here. _Now._ ” 

Booker nodded. “I know, I know. I’ll see you there.” 

Joe and Quynh disappeared into the storeroom, the only confirmation of their presence being the quiet footsteps away from him. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head and starting on his own path out of the storerooms. 

They were a maze on their own, but walking past all of the priceless art while he carefully removed his latex gloves was a thing on its own. He couldn’t even bring himself to consider how much of it was real, how much of it was fake, and whatever could have been taken and displayed by someone who would actually appreciate it—that was what _really_ got on Booker’s nerves, people buying expensive art and hiding it away somewhere when it was meant to be seen by people and appreciated. Wasn’t that the whole point of buying it anyways?

Booker couldn’t go through the vents for an easier exit, as much as he wished he could. Instead, he was forced to simply meander the halls and radio Nicky to cause a small distraction to pull the guards away from the door for a brief enough moment that Copley could open the door for him and he could move out. 

For good measure, he mumbled a quick _I’m ready_ for his earpiece, and despite hiding behind a box to keep from being out in the open, the door did eventually open. Booker brushed himself off, glancing immediately outside for a sign of guards. 

Nothing.

He was quick with his steps, hustling across the hall and to the staircase, throwing himself up the steps and trying to haul ass as fast as unsuspiciously possible to get into the bathroom on the main floor to the south of the museum, where Nicky should have left his change of clothes…

Despite looking halfway decent in heist-pulling clothes (tight black t-shirts with gloves did a surprising amount for people), he needed something different if he was going to be out in public in the Parisian fall. 

Slipping into the men’s bathroom once he’d found the right corridor, he waited a moment to see if there was anyone else inside before he locked the door and set to finding the suit Nicky had left him. As it turns out, it had been carefully tucked away in the paper towel box, delicately placed on top of brown towels. Go figure.

Booker had never changed faster in his life.

The tie was a little wonky, but the red and black suit was consistently a good look for him, and that wasn’t changing any time soon. 

He left just as quickly, falling into step with a guard walking past who was shorter than him and keeping his head down. He could assume it was Nicky, just based on how he walked and upon second once-over, the nose was noticeable too. When Nicky glanced over to him with a wry smile, though, Booker could officially relax, despite the wariness he’d held before.

“Everything go alright?” Nicky asked, a mumble under his breath.

“Better than alright, I’ll say,” Booker mused in return. 

The trek out of the Louvre was surprisingly painless. Nicky knew the route to take them to avoid trouble, and if there had been any hints towards trouble, Copley clearly was doing her job and keeping them out of it. Only once they’d left did Nicky quickly strip out of the uniform jacket, adjusting the plain white button down and black tie he had on underneath. The hat and jacket went in a trash can shortly. 

There was something about Booker’s steps as they made it to the street outside the Louvre. Perhaps it was an air of swagger as he adjusted his tie, glancing over to Nicky absently and unable to help the smile he’d gotten.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Nicky said quietly, but slowly, a smile crept over his face too.

“I know, I know,” Booker said simply. “But we still _did_ it.”

Nicky chuckled, raking his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, we did.” 

“Holy _shit._ ”

* * *

Booker set to work the following evening on the restoration, careful about the appearances he was trying to keep up as he set to work. What was sitting in front of him was his own creation, something he wasn’t quite sure how to feel about. Passable, yes. Enough to buy them the time to get Copley back across the English Channel, that much was certain. Undoubtedly, by now she was safe back home with the most expensive painting in the world hidden under her bed.

Finally, he wrinkled his nose and set down the painting, glancing warily to Thomas, who was continuing to watch his every move. 

“Is this a joke?” Booker asked quietly, stepping away from the painting. “Or did you mean for me to do work on the fake?” 

Thomas immediately straightened up. “What do you mean? The fake is on display, that’s the real thing.” 

“No, it’s not. Look at it, the paint is way too fresh, it’s been purposefully aged, and none of the work I’ve started is here.” 

Thomas said nothing, simply paled almost instantly and nearly tumbled out of the little plastic room. 

Booker internally smiled, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me in other places, too! i'm on tumblr @[andromachesimp](https://andromachesimp.tumblr.com), and while you're down here, you can also [listen to the playlist i wrote this fic to](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1bwQKwtbcPJcysGomjznoZ?si=eJC1jTESQbiKtubDFil1Yg)! while you're down here, i'm gonna plug @[theturtlelives](https://theturtlelives.tumblr.com/) again because you should really give her a follow and look at her amazing art
> 
> now, with my final breaths, i bless you with a [chapterly cursed mashup](https://youtu.be/JnyMegOMDdM) that booker would totally unironically enjoy. he's a linkin park stan and you know it. 
> 
> stay classy. stay dirty. stay dangerous.


End file.
